


Or Not Untrue and Not Unkind

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik falls. Charles less so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or Not Untrue and Not Unkind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7761.html?thread=14200145), which you should probably read first. Title from "[Talking in Bed](http://greatpoets.livejournal.com/63181.html)" by Philip Larkin.

i.

In a hotel room on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Angel asleep in the next room, Erik shoves him face down onto the bed and presses down on him. The no is on Charles' lips, but it dies there as nothing more than a sigh, as Erik bites down on the back of Charles' neck. It's a mark of possession, a mark of fondness, and Charles has never had anyone -

 _I want you so much._

\- want him that much. Or at all, really, that wasn't by Charles' faint influence. And this, perhaps, or then again most definitely is Charles' own influence as well. Everything that he said, all the talk of connection and not being alone and -

 _I felt you, under my skin. I still feel you there._

Make it stop. Make it stop.

It hurts, more than he imagines it would. Even though Erik is gentle, or as gentle as a man who's never had the luxury of being gentle before, even though he stretches Charles out, tells Charles, "Breathe, it gets better. Breathe."

I don't quite think it does, old buddy, old chap, Charles thinks, but he keeps these thoughts, and all others, to himself. Clutches at the sheets instead, and bites down on a pillow until it's soaked with saliva.

At some point, perhaps, Erik's hand on his cock: he comes.

That's a surprise, then.

Afterwards, Erik rubs at Charles' face with his hand and laughs, and the fondness radiating off him, the thrill - he plants a kiss on Charles' shoulder and says, "I'll take a shower now."

Charles shakes his head, grateful that Erik doesn't utter the inevitable, "Join me." That he doesn't know how. Charles makes a note: Never again. Erik rises up and away and Charles can still feel him inside, his cock like iron and his fingers like steel, and he closes his eyes and wishes he could wipe his own memory away. Would that not be a trick for the ages. It would.

He could stop Erik at any time. That's what he tells himself, and it's the absolute truth.

He could stop Erik at any time. He could make him forget, make him despise Charles, make him not queer, even. If only briefly, but the thought of a brief respite seems like heaven at this point, a break from the constant, ever present need pounding at him, exactly like Erik does every single night.

"Don't you ever get tired," Charles says once. On his back and holding his own legs spread wide open as Erik slides into him, and they'd done this the night before and the night before that, and by this point Charles knows exactly how the night will go. He can even watch as his own body reacts, watch as his cock turns hard and desperate, watch as his mouth mutters words of incredible filth. Only words, memories of co-eds in his apartment at Oxford, both of them drunk beyond all sense.

He wonders, sometimes, if those co-eds ever felt as naked as he does, each and every night.

"Don't you ever get tired," Charles says, and Erik stops, mid-thrust.

"Do you want me to - is something wrong, Charles," Erik says, and he looks confused, and stricken. _Is_ confused, and stricken. Charles doesn't know what to say exactly:

No, look. This has all been a terrible mistake, I hope you understand. This isn't really me. I like delicate skin and soft breasts and the taste of a girl on my tongue. I like the way they smell and the way they talk and the way our parts fit in a manner that requires very little preparation and, from what I can tell, far less pain.

"Charles?"

Erik is demanding an answer, and Charles closes his eyes and whispers, "No, everything is fine. Please, don't stop." Erik grins, and kisses him hard, and by the time Erik comes he's almost convinced himself that sharply tapering lines and a hard frame and a cock in his ass is what he wants.

That Erik is what he wants.

 _I want you,_ Erik's thinking, over and over again, and just on that need alone, Charles comes.

He could stop Erik at any time, is what he tells himself every single day. Make Erik forget entirely who he is. Turn him into a stranger, a man with no purpose in life beyond what Charles wishes it to be. He could turn Erik kind, and gentle, not someone who could shoot people in the head without pause, without losing sleep over it afterwards. He could destroy this complex, delicate being whose life has been fractured by so much pain and loss Charles can taste it in his kiss, in his touch, in the slide of his skin against Charles'.

He could do so much to Erik, he tells himself, as Erik sleeps the sleep of the post-coital exhausted, one arm thrown carelessly over Charles' waist as his leg dangles half off the too small bed. His breathing slow and even, relaxed in a manner that Charles has rarely seen him be, and he's so thin, Charles thinks suddenly, tracing the line of Erik's ribs with his fingers.

Charles blinks back tears, and waits for Erik to wake up.

ii.

In Annapolis, Erik squeezes Charles' hand, a little too long, and Alex Summers tilts his head curiously. _Forget_ , Charles whispers, and he does. That night, yet another motel room, Charles grumbling about how the government could possibly afford them a bigger budget, and Erik laughs good-naturedly, says, "I've been in worse places. Relax, Charles." His fingers on Charles' shoulders, and Charles immediately stills under the force of Erik's resolute calmness.

But: that's not why he's really nervous. It's what Erik's thinking. Of how these children will never be soldiers. Of how futile this trip is, and how he will do it if it gets him closer to Shaw. Of Charles, and eventually all thoughts are buried under the ones of Charles. On his back, on his hands and knees - on his knees, his cheeks flushed and his lips red and his mouth stretched wide and glistening, and surely he's not this louche, surely he's never been this obscene, never begged for it the way Erik is imagining he will. "Charles," Erik says, slow and lazy and brimming with promise, and Charles sinks obligingly to his knees.

"I've never," he says, and that's the truth. Erik only nods his head and runs his fingers through Charles' hair like one would a pet. "No," Charles says, but again that gets buried under how much Erik simply wants him to.

And oh, the secret at the root of it all: Erik's never wanted like this before. Never linked to someone else so closely. Shuttered in his own private universe for what seems like forever, and it makes Charles want to cry because of it.

"Hey," Erik tells him. "We'll take it slow. You don't even have to."

"No, I want to," Charles tells him hastily, even as bile fills his mouth. He reaches for Erik's pants and undoes his belt. "For you." Down his throat, and it's as unpleasant as he always imagined it would be, but he breathes through his nose and concentrates on completing, on making Erik start to moan, and roll his hips, and at some point he just lets Erik fuck his mouth as he pleases and that hurts, but at least he does't have to think about Erik's minute reactions to his tongue anymore.

Erik moans, one last time, and then his come is in Charles' mouth, sharp and acidic. Charles pulls back, choking, trying to swallow, and Erik is on his knees instantly, his hand on Charles' back, rubbing between his shoulderblades.

"You all right, Charles," he says, and the color is high on his cheeks and his eyes are bright and he is so very beautiful and Charles shudders, can't stop shuddering until Erik kisses him, his mouth devouring Charles as usual, his tongue in Charles' mouth, and Charles can still taste Erik and he feels like he's drowning, as if every part of him is permeated with Erik's essence and he can't escape. Death by Nazi-hunter, he thinks dizzily, and when Erik pulls back to raise a questioning brow at him, Charles just shakes his head and keeps on laughing.

iii.

In a secret CIA facility, Charles stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. You look like hell, Charles -

"You look terrible Charles, are you okay?" Raven, never big on respecting privacy - his own fault, he'd encouraged it all these years. It's not as if he knew how siblings were supposed to behave beyond what he'd gleaned from the minds of others. Annoyance and deeply rooted resentment underlaid by love, mostly, and on all those fronts they seemed to have gotten it right. "Are you all right, Charles," Raven asks again.

Charles says, "I'm fine, please leave me alone," but he doesn't make her go away. A promise is a promise is a promise. She leaves, eventually, after Charles closes his eyes, her faint touch on his shoulder before she walks away making him wince.

Making him think of Erik. Everything hurts, all the time now.

Charles makes a list in his head, of what he likes most about Erik - beyond his strength and his beauty and his power and the glimpses of the man that he should have been before he'd been irrevocably broken by Shaw and marching wheels of genocide, beyond the parts of him that remain tantalizingly out of reach most of the time but Charles can still feel, deep within. Beyond all of that: his need. Mostly.

Charles makes a list in his head, of what he dislikes most about Erik - beyond his rage and his obsessiveness and his propensity towards violence and all the dark, hidden parts he keeps trying to make sure Charles never sees, even though Charles has seen it all at this point, surely. Beyond all of that: his need. Mostly.

Erik appears in the mirror behind him, and Charles snaps, "What is this, a public bathroom," and just as quickly apologizes as Erik's face turns blank, as he turns gracefully to exit. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. Stay. Stay."

Erik pauses, and at first Charles thinks he will walk out, but in the end he wraps leather-clad arms around Charles' body and puts his chin on his shoulder. "You look tired," he murmurs, and Charles shakes at the concern in his voice. All this is brand new for Erik: a touch that isn't meant to inflict violence, a word that isn't a threat. Erik is a beacon, struggling to shine. "You would tell me, if something were bothering you, wouldn't you."

"Of course," Charles says, but his heart isn't in it, not today. Erik grabs his shoulders and turns him gently around and Charles winces once again. "Nothing's wrong," he says. Except that I'm not this person and I don't like you in that way and I think I'm drowning, half the time, trapped in high waters with you dragging me down.

Erik tilts his head, and his worry is sharp enough that Charles feels like falling to his knees, then and there. The lonely boy with nothing but a sister who knew what he was, and her standing instructions were always, understandably: stay out of my head. And here's Erik, who only pretends to care that Charles wants to dissect all the myriad little parts of him, who's used to it in fact. And Erik, so brilliant and so different from everything he's known.

"You will tell me, won't you Charles, if there's something wrong." And like every question Erik asks, it comes across as a vague demand.

"I'm just tired," Charles says.

Erik frowns, and Charles tells him, _nothing is wrong_ , until he believes it to be true.


End file.
